If the man had perished instead of living a disfigured, cruel existence... he'd never see Lynette again. He'd never serve his Father again. Keep Freminet safe. There's a lot riding on this and the worst thing to do is ask a fire waiting to spread to not do just that. It's nearly impossible.
It's self-contained now, the things he wishes to do... all funneled into letters sent out. Wishes caught on shooting stars mean little under the surface of these waters.
He knows what will happen if he's gone – Lynette. Oh, his sweet Lynette... Father would eye her as his replacement. Run her into the ground, steal those precious smiles that only just begun to grace her lips. Lynette is capable of the life they live, but she deserves better.
He gladly accepted his role with Father, all so Lynette didn't have to.
Yet, Wriothesley's words hit home – he didn't even realize he rolled his eyes. ]
...You think I don't take this seriously. I accept the punishment for my crimes, not a single bit of defense. [ He doesn't feel regret, even if his supposed soulmate was so far from him. ] The things you do in this world have consequences. Yours have, I'm sure. Even down to what tea you choose to drink today...
[ Trailing off, his words are softer. ]
You'll have your coupons, you'll have no problems out of me – my tricks are quite limited here, anyway.
[ It takes more willpower than he'd like to admit not to pinch his own brow then and there.
Does he actually accept what he did? The words bring Wriothesley back to his own sin. He had cooperated completely with the investigation back then, admitted to what was apparent, filled in blanks where things weren't. Lyney's case file indicates the same. A guilty plea, albeit one his attorney underscored with notions of extenuating circumstances. Different, but so very close to the hallmarks of his own trial. Self-defense, his attorney had called it. The exhibits they'd entered--every proof of the abuse that helped him decide his path--live in perpetual haze within his mind.
Not a single bit of defense.
To Wriothesley, accepting what one did is more than doing one's time. It's not about appreciating the law, or any noble ideas of justice. It's not about being sorry, either--he's never once been sorry, never regretted the two lives he took that day. But acceptance is knowing how much those two lives weigh, no matter the harm you pit them against; acceptance is knowing the hurt felt by the ones left behind, every loose end, every aching memory with no resolution to match.
There's a Lyney-shaped space in Lynette's and Freminet's lives. A man sits somewhere permanently disfigured by fire; if he ever wants to repent for his own share of sin, some will reject him on appearance alone. Six months of Lyney's young life will be lost to the sea. And so on.
He speaks of consequence, but what does someone so young actually know? It took Wriothesley more years than he can say to grasp the gravity of his own crime. There are days where he realizes something anew, and knows the time is long since past where anything can be done about it. By his measure, Lyney hasn't accepted anything. He can't have. Not so soon. ]
I know I'll have no problems out of you. [ That much isn't for Lyney to decide. ] But I wonder if you know what it means to take this seriously. I'm sure that without you, every day is agony for Lynette.
[ From the moment he felt cuffs dig into his wrist, the spotlight of a less grand trial only radiate against him instead of burn him alive... Lyney knew what he was sacrificing. He needed Lynette safe, he needed his family protected. Cooperating allowed just that, even for those bound to the Fatui. Any judge would ensure a verdict was given and those affected sought treatment.
He personally thanked Neuvillette, after all, and apologized for his ticket for the next show going to waste.
Now, he looks across to someone representing a justice system that was seemingly broken. People fall through the cracks, people fade into shadows, and those who sit guilty may never know true redemption.
Lyney cares less about it than one would admit, but he has been thinking about what this means inside the Fortress, not out of it. ]
Don't speak about her agony. [ Is the only warning he'll get. ] Being a good boy ensures my sentence is appropriately served. Lessons learned, justice prevails. The world spins on with or without me guilty. Without me justified in my actions. It didn't stop the verdict.
The world spins on, alright. But don't you wonder what the alternative could have been? You could have been at her side today--not begging me to send her letters she'll read from the overworld.
[ Wriothesley won't say he mourns what could have been, but he does think there can be no acceptance without consideration for the what-ifs. He does wish he had a better childhood. He does wonder what a life without Meropide could have looked like. Would he trade the man he is today for the man he could have been? Probably not--he's long since picked through those ruins and taken what he could from them.
He shouldn't let this get to him. By his own admission, these things take time--but to Wriothesley, it doesn't sound as if Lyney accepts his sin at all: it sounds as if he's accepted the concept of six months in the undertow, and an eventual return to form. Nothing more. ]
What-ifs don't feed bellies. What-ifs don't keep people safe when someone else wishes to harm them. What-ifs don't – do fucking anything.
[ Magic is one giant what-if – the only thing he can believe in. Action, however, is a catalyst for that magic. He uses it as freely as fire, as precise as a bow. Wriothesley can assume so much about the boy, but that crack... vulnerable and splintered was telling enough. ]
Lynette is safe. That's what matters. [ His admission was swallowed with his voice hollow as it was. ] A judge saw my punishment as suitable in this time, so I will see it through. Whatever happens during it... who can tell.
Best to rein it back in, he realizes. Cool as he normally keeps, even Wriothesley isn't above being seized by his passions. He can't force rebirth, or reflection, or much of anything that falls outside of Meropide's written rules. What he can do is remember that these things vary with each individual. That reckonings move on slow legs. That Lyney is his own person, no matter...
No matter how much this whole ordeal reminds Wriothesley of his own past.
That's all the motivation he needs to put the argument aside. He's traveled quite enough of that avenue today. The two stacks of envelopes sit like sentinels, suggesting what he'd rather not consider. ]
You're not wrong. [ Said bluntly, but gently, too. ] Wishes don't change what ultimately is. Mine never did. But they did help me see the scope of my sin. They didn't change the past--they cast it under new light.
[ He crosses his arms. Multiple truths can exist at once. Neither of them have to be wrong. ]
...Very well. You accomplished what you set out to do, and nothing changes that. So be it.
The only what-if there is... is if I killed him, Wriothesley. I'd still end up here.
[ There's no other – even with the flames of his hatred and protectiveness for Lynette burning like an inferno. Hellfire, the kind that would consume him if he isn't careful. Leaving him alive was not an option.
The room feels smaller, more somber. There's something lost in the way Lyney looks to him – as if expecting more scoldings on a trial no one asked him to partake in. It doesn't work out that way. Lyney stiffens his shoulders and pulls his hat off his head. He's so... young, eyes once bright a bit more clouded and hair unkept for once. Promise stands before Wriothesley, but so does determination.
Does it bother him he's so sure of his choice?
Lyney doesn't know. ]
So be it. I'll leave you to your tea, please send one of your subordinates to let me know when the letters are marked received.
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no subject
If the man had perished instead of living a disfigured, cruel existence... he'd never see Lynette again. He'd never serve his Father again. Keep Freminet safe. There's a lot riding on this and the worst thing to do is ask a fire waiting to spread to not do just that. It's nearly impossible.
It's self-contained now, the things he wishes to do... all funneled into letters sent out. Wishes caught on shooting stars mean little under the surface of these waters.
He knows what will happen if he's gone – Lynette. Oh, his sweet Lynette... Father would eye her as his replacement. Run her into the ground, steal those precious smiles that only just begun to grace her lips. Lynette is capable of the life they live, but she deserves better.
He gladly accepted his role with Father, all so Lynette didn't have to.
Yet, Wriothesley's words hit home – he didn't even realize he rolled his eyes. ]
...You think I don't take this seriously. I accept the punishment for my crimes, not a single bit of defense. [ He doesn't feel regret, even if his supposed soulmate was so far from him. ] The things you do in this world have consequences. Yours have, I'm sure. Even down to what tea you choose to drink today...
[ Trailing off, his words are softer. ]
You'll have your coupons, you'll have no problems out of me – my tricks are quite limited here, anyway.
no subject
Does he actually accept what he did? The words bring Wriothesley back to his own sin. He had cooperated completely with the investigation back then, admitted to what was apparent, filled in blanks where things weren't. Lyney's case file indicates the same. A guilty plea, albeit one his attorney underscored with notions of extenuating circumstances. Different, but so very close to the hallmarks of his own trial. Self-defense, his attorney had called it. The exhibits they'd entered--every proof of the abuse that helped him decide his path--live in perpetual haze within his mind.
Not a single bit of defense.
To Wriothesley, accepting what one did is more than doing one's time. It's not about appreciating the law, or any noble ideas of justice. It's not about being sorry, either--he's never once been sorry, never regretted the two lives he took that day. But acceptance is knowing how much those two lives weigh, no matter the harm you pit them against; acceptance is knowing the hurt felt by the ones left behind, every loose end, every aching memory with no resolution to match.
There's a Lyney-shaped space in Lynette's and Freminet's lives. A man sits somewhere permanently disfigured by fire; if he ever wants to repent for his own share of sin, some will reject him on appearance alone. Six months of Lyney's young life will be lost to the sea. And so on.
He speaks of consequence, but what does someone so young actually know? It took Wriothesley more years than he can say to grasp the gravity of his own crime. There are days where he realizes something anew, and knows the time is long since past where anything can be done about it. By his measure, Lyney hasn't accepted anything. He can't have. Not so soon. ]
I know I'll have no problems out of you. [ That much isn't for Lyney to decide. ] But I wonder if you know what it means to take this seriously. I'm sure that without you, every day is agony for Lynette.
no subject
He personally thanked Neuvillette, after all, and apologized for his ticket for the next show going to waste.
Now, he looks across to someone representing a justice system that was seemingly broken. People fall through the cracks, people fade into shadows, and those who sit guilty may never know true redemption.
Lyney cares less about it than one would admit, but he has been thinking about what this means inside the Fortress, not out of it. ]
Don't speak about her agony. [ Is the only warning he'll get. ] Being a good boy ensures my sentence is appropriately served. Lessons learned, justice prevails. The world spins on with or without me guilty. Without me justified in my actions. It didn't stop the verdict.
no subject
[ Wriothesley won't say he mourns what could have been, but he does think there can be no acceptance without consideration for the what-ifs. He does wish he had a better childhood. He does wonder what a life without Meropide could have looked like. Would he trade the man he is today for the man he could have been? Probably not--he's long since picked through those ruins and taken what he could from them.
He shouldn't let this get to him. By his own admission, these things take time--but to Wriothesley, it doesn't sound as if Lyney accepts his sin at all: it sounds as if he's accepted the concept of six months in the undertow, and an eventual return to form. Nothing more. ]
no subject
[ Magic is one giant what-if – the only thing he can believe in. Action, however, is a catalyst for that magic. He uses it as freely as fire, as precise as a bow. Wriothesley can assume so much about the boy, but that crack... vulnerable and splintered was telling enough. ]
Lynette is safe. That's what matters. [ His admission was swallowed with his voice hollow as it was. ] A judge saw my punishment as suitable in this time, so I will see it through. Whatever happens during it... who can tell.
no subject
Best to rein it back in, he realizes. Cool as he normally keeps, even Wriothesley isn't above being seized by his passions. He can't force rebirth, or reflection, or much of anything that falls outside of Meropide's written rules. What he can do is remember that these things vary with each individual. That reckonings move on slow legs. That Lyney is his own person, no matter...
No matter how much this whole ordeal reminds Wriothesley of his own past.
That's all the motivation he needs to put the argument aside. He's traveled quite enough of that avenue today. The two stacks of envelopes sit like sentinels, suggesting what he'd rather not consider. ]
You're not wrong. [ Said bluntly, but gently, too. ] Wishes don't change what ultimately is. Mine never did. But they did help me see the scope of my sin. They didn't change the past--they cast it under new light.
[ He crosses his arms. Multiple truths can exist at once. Neither of them have to be wrong. ]
...Very well. You accomplished what you set out to do, and nothing changes that. So be it.
no subject
[ There's no other – even with the flames of his hatred and protectiveness for Lynette burning like an inferno. Hellfire, the kind that would consume him if he isn't careful. Leaving him alive was not an option.
The room feels smaller, more somber. There's something lost in the way Lyney looks to him – as if expecting more scoldings on a trial no one asked him to partake in. It doesn't work out that way. Lyney stiffens his shoulders and pulls his hat off his head. He's so... young, eyes once bright a bit more clouded and hair unkept for once. Promise stands before Wriothesley, but so does determination.
Does it bother him he's so sure of his choice?
Lyney doesn't know. ]
So be it. I'll leave you to your tea, please send one of your subordinates to let me know when the letters are marked received.
[ A gentle request, if only for his heart. ]
Work awaits.